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Rabastan Lestrange is a brilliant actor (rabastrange) wrote in anon_rpg,

Finally the clock struck 7 and Rabastan was on the move, his brother hot on his heels with a little more decorum than Rabastan felt at the moment. The thought of killing put him in a mood that he normally managed to push to the recesses of his mind. His hand tightened on his wand as he thought about what needed to happen. First, storm the church with as much surprise as possible, thus confusing the Muggles. Then put silencing, locking, and warding charms on all possible exits. Rabastan exchanged this information with his brother, who was already passing the word along to the others that had shown up to participate in the fun.

As soon as his hand made contact with the door, he felt the air around him sizzle on every iota of exposed skin; the charge ran through him and energised him, preparing every muscle for a good fight. It was rare enough that he got to kill without magic. Some might scoff and say that to use Muggle means was uncouth, impure, but Rabastan had found no other pleasure like it. To feel the skin, muscle, and bones of your victim constrict and crumble beneath your fingertips, to see the light leave their eyes... it was a high, like reaching the proverbial zenith of a long trek, finding a climax that was otherwise elusive. There was nothing sexual about this for him, but it was certainly a physical pleasure.

The confused shouting and looks of surprise were what immediately struck him. The idiot priest held the child aloft, its flailing limbs and wailing voice becoming lost in the sudden flurry of activity. The men, neatly dressed and demanding in their demeanour, approached, insulted, perhaps, that uninvited guests had crashed their celebration. Rabastan only smiled and raised his wand, adding a layer of charms of his own, ensuring that their work would not be interrupted. The magic flowed like a live python through his arm, the tingling acute and immediate. One of the Muggles looked astounded, perhaps wondering what sort of a madman relied on a stick and babbling gibberish, but the gleam in Rabastan's eye, the malice that shone out and made him look much older than his years, quickly silenced him.

A hand reached within his robe and pulled out a small, thin blade. Enough to cut open the flesh with a neat incision, readying his victims for the rest of his meticulous work. Some would be strangled for the sake of feeling muscles and bone crunch satisfyingly under his hands. But the infant, the entire centre of this baptism... the infant was his.

Some of the men tried to rush him as soon as they saw the blade, finally realising that this meant something more than a young man flailing a stick. This was real and he might be disgruntled, or a psychopath, or worse, perfectly sane and simply looking for a thrill. Wandless binding spells caught the small group and held them still. A woman looking on gasped as Rabastan unlatched the floodgate and carefully slashed the first man's throat, and the second's gut, tearing into his fine clothing. And then he distantly felt his brother on the move, the anticipation of blood on Rodolphus's hands spurring him on. He levitated the woman, relishing in her shriek and the sobs following. Binding her so that only her head could thrash about, he made the third man watch as his blade drove into her left eye; her cries and inane thrashing made the wound worse, driving the blade deeper.

Rabastan felt himself smile as his dark eyes watched a rivulet of blood stream down his hand and coat his wrist.